


That Sweet Blush Color

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Dominance, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Spoilers, Power Play, Spit Kink, set before the events of judgment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: Despite the pain, despite the fear that’s slowly clawing little lanes of dread inside the pit of Yagami’s stomach, he manages to choke out a question.“So, you ever hear of mukbang?”





	That Sweet Blush Color

**Author's Note:**

> warning for mildly dubious consent
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)

He is pinned, like the piece of sashimi stabbed unceremoniously with the end of a black chopstick. Like a rat beneath the white light of a laboratory.

Hamura eats the salmon with his expensive shoe on Yagami’s chest.

Yagami doesn’t squirm, as much as he’d like to. He just squints up at Hamura with this inscrutable expression, lips still and nostrils unflared, but pupils shiny with… what? The onset of tears? Anger?

If it’s inscrutable, it’s also intolerable, Yagami guesses, because Hamura stomps on his sternum without much warning. It leaves his chest blooming with this dull, aching pain, a hard thud that shudders through him and makes him feel lower than low. Hamura’s got him feeling like a human headache.

Hamura puts the sashimi in his mouth. The slant of pinkish fish looks like a second tongue.

Despite the pain, despite the fear that’s slowly clawing little lanes of dread inside the pit of Yagami’s stomach, he manages to choke out a question.

“So, you ever hear of mukbang?”

Hamura licks soy sauce off his bottom lip and hitches his eyebrows.

“ _What_?”

Yagami wraps his hand around Hamura’s ankle, and the twitching sneer that flickers over the old man’s lips for a moment doesn’t go unnoticed. He thumbs over his pantleg for good measure, immobilizing him with annoyance the same way Hamura’s immobilized him with his foot.

“It started out pretty nicely. In Korea, it’s not custom to eat alone. So, people would livestream themselves eating meals, and you could eat as well, while chatting with them online. Digital camaraderie. But now, it’s this whole bizarre brand of videos! Twenty-minute videos of people all over the world just eating loudly at their camera, no conversation, no entertainment value.”

Hamura stares at him for a while before he shakes his head. His eyes are perpetually dark, but a car passes outside, and through the open window, his pupils flash brake-light red. It’s more than a little unsettling.

“So what?”

“Well, I thought you might be good at it, since you’re just making me watch you eat.”

Hamura leans over and slaps him across the face. It’s a stinging pain, dissimilar to the stomp on his chest. It’s more sharp, brutal. He files away these experiences of pain for later, these unique types of sensations, but he’s not sure why. Then the yakuza leans back and laughs.

“A man can’t eat before he engages in a little torture?”

Yagami doesn’t respond, cupping his face with his palm, as if to nurse the prickling pain. His eye is wet but still, like lotus pond water, and he manages to look at Hamura obstinately. That unwavering eye-contact pisses Hamura off more; he likes the fear, the begging, the reactions, the sweat.

Of course, when Yagami’s eyelid swells and a fat droplet of a tear streams down the side of his face, it’s all worth it. He presses his wrist to his crotch and sets aside his plate. The china clinks unfittingly delicately against the desk, echoing in the empty room.

Yagami even feels like _breathing_ is impeding on the silence.

He hates it when the office is so empty.

Hates it more when it’s only Hamura around.

“You want to tell me why you hit one of my boys?” Hamura says, goading and patronizing, his voice lilting high like he’s a school principal talking down to a child.

“How was I supposed to know he was one of yours? I’d never seen him before.”

“New _kyodai_. Initiation was last week. What, your little pal Kaito didn’t tell you?”

“We’re not in the business of gossiping, Hamura-san. Anyway, give me some credit,” Yagami reaches up and strokes his ankle again, just to piss him off, “I’m getting him used to the new lifestyle. He threw the first punch.”

“And he comes back with a broken nose.”

Yagami sits up on an elbow but it’s immediately kicked out from under him, and he flops back down on the densely packed carpet. More pain, albeit less impactful: the dull throb of his skull connecting with the floor. “Something tells me… You’re not all too concerned with the physical condition of your underlings. I think you could care less about how they’re faring medically. Forgive me if I come off as _presumptive_ , but I think you might be jumping on the chance to abuse your favorite, local detective. But that’s just my professional and deductive opinion.”

A polished shoe tip presses against the apex of Yagami’s nose. He grits his teeth in anticipation, and sucks in a nervous little breath. With the proximity of the bottom of his shoe so close to his nostrils, it smells of street puddles and mud. “What a clever little P.I. you are. I’ll have to remember to hire you if I ever need a lawyer.”

Yagami seals his eyes tight when Hamura lifts his foot, but something in Hamura softens. He doesn’t kick his nose in after all.

After his fear simmers down into something manageable, Yagami cracks an eye open, and watches Hamura smile down at his grimace with a placid curl of his thin lips.

“Don’t want to leave evidence?” Yagami tests. The broken nose of one of his oyabun’s surrogate sons wouldn’t look too good, even if Hamura has managed to somehow float above punishment in all of his endeavors.

Hamura releases him from where he’s had him restrained and watches Yagami’s chest expand as he takes thorough breaths.

“I didn’t want to mess up that pretty face.”

Yagami stares openly.

Before he can respond, he yelps out an embarrassingly high-pitched sound as the dress shoe lands between his legs. He feels sick with embarrassment, and claps a hand over his mouth, too late. Immediately—perhaps on instinct—he looks around for a camera planted anywhere in the office. But to record and preserve their own criminality would be stupid, and he realizes he’s looking for any distraction from the way that Hamura is currently grinding his foot down on Yagami’s _dick_.

Always keeping his sexual degeneracy a poorly-veiled secret, Yagami still assumed his coalition with the Matsugane Family being unofficial meant that Hamura would never prey on _him_.

“Look at that,” he sneers without much humor. Somewhere along the way he’s harvested a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, and the smoke floats pungent around his face. The grey of it makes him look flatter, duller. He seems miles away and all too close at once. “Seems like you’re capable of being cute despite your attitude.”

“Cute?” Yagami croaks, incredulous.

“That’s right. I think a boy should be cute. And that’s what you are, aren’t you? Not a man—not with the way you act so belligerently. You’re _spoiled_.”

_As if you don’t behave on your emotions_ , Yagami seethes silently.

He bends over the office chair, arms crossed over his knees, and blows the smoke into Yagami’s burning face. “The least you could do is act a little more attractive, if you—”

Hamura’s words are cut off by the lob of spit that Yagami directs at his face. It hits his high, weathered cheekbone, and slips onto his suit jacket with a stringy, slow splat.

The second slap doesn’t hurt as much as the first. Yagami doesn’t know why, but he files his descriptors away as such: _non-committal, affectionate_.

He’s feels like he’s going crazy.

“You already know what turns me on, don’t you?”

Yagami feels nausea slide into his stomach coolly. He can’t muster a response before he’s hauled up by his arm. His shoulder gives a concerning, crab-shell cracking noise, but the pain doesn’t register at all. Hamura is frighteningly strong, too much power packed into that taut and regal frame. Yagami doesn’t want to fight him, either—for the sake of Kaito’s continued peace. For Mitsugu’s aging serenity, he doesn’t need to start some nasty antagonization of the Family captain.

So he doesn’t fight, but he’s not helping Hamura puppeteer him, his long limbs all dead weight as he’s pulled onto Hamura’s lap, thighs draped over either side of his legs.

Hamura needles the pad of his thumb into the intersection of Yagami’s jawbones until they creak open, his lips parting to show teeth that may be tinged pinkish with blood. But the color could be the neon sign outside advertising draft beers and takoyaki.

Everything is bathed in that sweet, blush color. The neon, the salmon, their mouths—

He swallows reflexively.

Digging three fingers past the threshold of his lips, Hamura yanks on his bottom row of teeth to prevent him from biting down, resting the pads against Yagami’s wet tongue. He crawls his digits further and further back his open mouth until Yagami produces a noisy, wet, choking sound.

Yagami’s spit is warm and coating.

Hamura’s fingers taste of salt.

Then Yagami feels it: Hamura’s aching erection grow and press into his thigh sickeningly. He shifts for confirmation and watches Hamura’s eyelids squint in pleasure, as if he’s just gotten a back rub.

“ _You’re_ _dithguthing_ ,” he slurs around the handful. Hamura rocks his hand back and forth, simulating a blowjob, and Yagami’s eyes prickle with infuriated tears, gag-spit spilling down his chin, slicking his bottom lip into a cherry-skin pink.

Of course, it’s humiliating to be propped up and choked out and inspected, almost medically.

That doesn’t stop it from getting Yagami going. He’s no stranger to having his throat fucked, and the physical memory reminds his body of Kaito, just a few weeks ago—

His line of vision falls unfortunately past Hamura’s Rolex-adorned wrist, to his smirk.

“Oh?” Hamura says, and watches Yagami’s cheeks flush.

He pulls his fingers from Yagami’s dripping maw and leans close. His fan of breath that passes between winter-chapped lips smells of soy sauce and nicotine; not entirely unpleasant, since Yagami consumes both of those things on the daily. Hamura opens his mouth just slightly and lets his tongue rest on the crown of his neat, white teeth; their perfection is a product of laundered money.

One act of thoughtless impulse later and Yagami’s attached himself to that tongue barely protruding from his mouth. His arms limply fall over his shoulders and his hands are curled into fists behind Hamura’s slicked-back hair. He white-knuckles against his own libido. He’s an idiot, he _knows_ he is, he knows he shouldn’t be so clingy and easy and _eager_. And although he could lie to himself and convince himself that he’s doing it solely for the sake of keeping the peace, he guesses there’s something more animalistic in him driving him.

Besides, he’s always been an honest man.

Hamura slides his tongue wetly over Yagami’s bottom lip and relishes in the squishing, noisy sound that results, a small whimper that Yagami tries very hard to keep at bay. Hamura tugs him close, an arm wrapped tightly around his middle, and he pushes up against Yagami’s hard-on that’s now straining uncomfortably in his too-tight jeans.

They kiss for a while, Yagami furious and Hamura smug, but their feelings don’t affect how pleasantly the long line of dripping spit between them leaks.

Of course, Yagami’s the one to pull away, taking in humid breaths with his brows knitted. He slurps up some of the moistness off his bottom lip with his teeth. The resulting sound makes his next demand a lot less threatening.

“Let me go.”

Hamura’s hold only tightens and he stares up at him, onyx-shiny eyes too invasive. Yagami searches the office for Kaito’s desk. His laptop is open and there’s a sticker on it of a stylized teddy bear. Somehow, the image makes him soften, become more pliant.

“Eh, I think you need a lesson in shame. You got too much of an ego.”

Yagami squeezes his fists until his knuckles pop.

“This is already humiliating enough.”

“Eager there, weren’t you?”

Hamura unzips the teeth of Yagami’s jeans with creeping slowness.

“Don’t deny yourself anymore. Thank me for doing you this favor.”

Yagami centers his sight firmly on Kaito’s desk as a hand reaches between the open zipper of his jeans and gropes at the bulge in his underwear. He keeps his lips parted, lets Hamura bite and lick into and play at his mouth. He’s not responsive enough to be intimate but not still enough to be uninvolved.

Working Yagami’s jeans down over the tops of his thighs and yanking his briefs beneath the curved erection that’s leaking as much as his mouth, Hamura squeezes the base of his cock.

“It isn’t any worse than having your nose broken, is it?”

Yagami’s tongue lolls out of his mouth as he tilts his head, a gesture that’s meant to be morbid, but which only makes Hamura’s dick pump out more precum. “The shame’s killing me.”

It’s an honest admission.

With his chin and his dick both held in Hamura’s grip, Yagami feels good relinquishing all control. _I can’t help it, can I?_ The fact that he’s being coerced into this isn’t at all a comforting thought, but it’s a lot better than admitting he’s willing to make out with fucking Captain Hamura and jut his aching erection into the calloused flesh of his palm.

“What a fucking slut you are,” Hamura sneers, all cold and cruel, disgust ticking his voice up. Yagami’s face crawls with a blush that’s hidden in the light of the office. His dick twitches needy in Hamura’s hand and Yagami is close to begging, can feel desire bury itself in the pit of his chest.

“Please…”

Hamura’s hand works faster, pumps his aching cock, and he drawls, “Go on.”

That voice is cruel, and his breath is close, and Yagami grips his shoulders, digging his nails into the medical-white suit jacket, scraping cloth.

“ _Nn_ …”

When Yagami fails to beg, Hamura’s hand tightens around his balls. He goes red and puts the back of his forearm to his face, but that’s yanked down as fast at it comes up. Hamura doesn’t want him hiding against his desires. He wants Yagami spread open and pathetic and crying. He’s always despised his resilience, his stubbornness, keeping him from failing.

Hamura spits at him, the same as Yagami did earlier. It spreads itself stringy between his upper and lower lip, and Yagami breaks the vein of it with his tongue.

“Please let me cum.”

Hamura holds his cock tighter, too rough. Yagami flinches and pants, his hair dampening with sweat, his jacket feeling too heavy on his arms. It’s nearly claustrophobic, the way he’s boxed in and restrained.

“You can do better than that,” he snickers, and sticks a finger in his mouth again. For a moment, Yagami honest-to-god sucks it like it’s a dick, going down on it with his brows hitched, before he pops off quickly.

“Please—Hamura-san, _please_ … I want to cum, please let me. I can’t take it, my cock—I _need_ to. _Captain_ , please.”

It’s more than he ever expected to get out of the detective, so he loosens his hold and gives him two, three quick strokes of his cock, and watches Yagami shoot out ropes of thick cum over his own suit jacket. His body twitches and he jerks close. Hamura can feel his heart thudding, can almost see the cloth of his t-shirt shift with his pulse.

Then he lays boneless on top of him.

“You fucking pig,” Hamura snarls, pushing him off of his lap and watching him fall on his side, propped up by a hand that laps up carpet burn. “Making a mess of me.”

“You _made_ me.”

“I didn’t ask for a complaint. Clean me up.”

Yagami stares at him.

“Now. Or I’ll break your fucking nose like I wanted to.”

Yagami supposes it could be worse. If this is the end of it, if he can lap up his own cum—nothing he’s unfamiliar with, embarrassingly enough—then he can go back to the agency and utilize his bottle of mouth wash as quickly as humanly possible.

Crawling up between his sprawled legs, he inhales the aroma of his musk, his own cum, the cigarette still burning lazily in an ash tray. Hamura picks it up and nurses it as Yagami’s tongue peeks out from between his lips and he collects the cum from his suit jacket. He feels like it’s a stupid, futile exercise: replacing the unhygienic semen with equally unhygienic saliva, but he supposes it’s a powerplay, and nothing more.

The taste isn’t bad. Mild, salty. It’s the taste of himself. Call him a narcissist.

He sits back on his haunches once he thinks he’s sufficiently cleaned the jacket, and he shows off the wet jizz collected on his tongue, lets Hamura inspect the milky fluid shiny with spit, before he swallows it.

Hamura tilts his head and exhales a breath of smoke from his nostrils. He sits, regal and coiled in his chair, much like a dragon.

“That’s good.”

Yagami stands up to leave, his face stained the color of the neon takoyaki sign outside, but he’s stopped once again by the sound of a zipper.

He looks over, and Hamura hefts his dick out. It’s soft and smeared with his own semen. Yagami can’t help but feel a burst of pride for making someone as domineering, as threatening and controlling as Hamura, cum in his pants like a teenager.

That pride fizzles into shame when Hamura tips his head back and gives his filthy cock a small shake, as if he’s beckoning a _dog_ over with a treat.

“Clean it up.”

**Author's Note:**

> watched too much sloppy kissing jav this week and here we are


End file.
